


Purgatory

by BestTrashLife82



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25949878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BestTrashLife82/pseuds/BestTrashLife82
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale run into The Mormon Angel Moroni. It doesn’t go well! Based on a news story I read about a drunken baby bird rescue in Utah.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Purgatory

A demon had been in Purgatory for several hours; Purgatory being the name of the bar in question. Hanging out here was a nice, breezy way for the demon Crowley to spread some casual chaos in an evening. Temptation in Utah was usually a cushy gig, increasingly so as the state both upheld certain moral restrictions and became more progressive. A subtle demonic miracle could easily increase the liquor content of any beverage beyond the state-required 2.5 fluid ounces, thus both breaking the law and facilitating drunken shenanigans. It was the kind of low-effort, high-yield evil that Crowley lived for. 

Currently, he was buying drinks for anyone who made eye contact with him. Or at least, anyone who looked him up and down and tried to peer through the dark sunglasses that sat nicely above his cheekbones. In between temptations, Crowley was using his tongue to tie cocktail cherry stems into knots with supernatural speed. 

He turned to face a rather drunk patron wobbling near him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Smith, you’re hot,” she confessed, before running off to the ladies room to vomit. 

Crowley smirked, spreading his legs out in a nice, bastard-sized sprawl over five whole bar stools. It was shaping up to be a good night. 

The night took an even better shape in the form of a soft, blonde angel entering the bar with the adorable hesitation of an emissary of virtue entering a den of vice. What this looked like was mostly a lot of nervous clasping and unclasping of the angel’s manicured hands.

The angel Aziraphale hoped he had the right place. The other bar up the street, while festive and delightful (and offering quite a deal on double mai tais) was not where he was supposed to be this evening. An honest mistake on the part of the cab driver, really.

He smiled upon entering the bar and hearing familiar strains of a particular brand of music that reminded him of someone. Someone who wore a black jacket with a red collar, and who concealed the burning yellow chaos of his eyes behind dark glasses. Someone who looked very much like that gentleman taking up prime real estate at the bar. 

He approached to see his friend turn, the lines of his face crinkling up around dark shades: Crowley’s first unironic smile of the evening. 

“What’s a part-time bookseller like you doing in a place like this, angel?” 

Aziraphale carefully nudged Crowley’s legs off the barstools to sit down beside him.

“Crowley! It has been some time since we’ve run into each other in this manner, hasn’t it? And in the United States, no less!” The angel leaned in closer. “You are tempting everyone in this bar quite terribly.”

The demon held up his hands innocently. “Only with beverage-related wiles! Probably not much worse than they would’ve gotten up to without me. I’m just being a fun guy at the bar, you know?” 

“Well, I am also here in a professional capacity,” the angel said. He ordered a glass of red wine from the bar, while Crowley sipped whiskey. 

“Something in this bar need blessing?” Crowley looked around at the patrons, typical weekend drinkers all. 

“Soon,” Aziraphale said, “a bus of Mormon missionaries will break down and they will all come in for help. I’ll simply make sure things go well for them. The truth is,” the angel took a dainty sip of wine, raising an eyebrow in a way that meant he was about to drop some seriously hot gossip, “I’m filling in for another angel who has been somewhat . . . unreliable lately.”

“Ohhh?” Crowley raised a matching eyebrow. “Anyone I know?” 

“Not sure. Do you happen to, that is to say, during your time upstairs,” Aziraphale shifted on the stool uncomfortably, “meet the angel Moroni?” 

Crowley shook his head. 

“Bearded fellow? Always carrying around a stack of golden plates?”

“Never met him personally. I’m familiar with the bit about the plates, though. And the bit that came after.”

“Indeed. It is a shame, really, because many of these Mormons truly are a kindhearted sort, some of the best. They probably deserve a better angel!” 

“You mean like one who refuses to sell them books and takes extended lunch breaks?” Crowley teased, and Aziraphale’s cheeks turned the color of the wine he was drinking. 

The bar door opened then, and the missionaries filed in, tired and flustered, yet smiling and smartly dressed. 

Aziraphale excused himself and went to mingle among them, shaking hands and brushing shoulders lightly, ensuring safety from harm and increasing their chances of success and happiness in the near future. The bar was inspired to supply them with free water, juice, and snacks. 

The angel took every piece of literature they gave him with genuine gratitude, and listened intently to every word they had to say. He also, for good measure, made sure the bar patrons listened with kindness and interest to their message. 

It turned out that an auto repair shop was somehow still open to fix their bus. A luxury tour bus with all the amenities arrived by chance to pick them up shortly after the broken-down bus had been towed. The young missionaries left the bar, bewildered but grateful. The bar found itself suddenly bereft of ties, slacks, and semi-formal skirts. 

Aziraphale returned to his bar stool, eyes bright and shining, pockets stuffed with pamphlets and travel-sized copies of The Book of Mormon. 

“A bit excessive, wasn’t that?” Crowley said, soaking up Aziraphale’s residual angelic glow in a way that he’d never let on he enjoyed. 

“It’s hard not to get carried away,” the angel admitted. “They are all so nice! And obviously unaccustomed to the finer things in life, poor dears. I wanted to get them limousines, but I’m afraid that would have taken up too much space and inconvenienced everyone.” 

Crowley nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I would’ve done for exactly that reason.” The demon polished off his whiskey. “Well, our professional obligations have been fulfilled. What now, angel? Let me buy you something sweet.”

“Oh, that’s very kind, but I couldn’t possibly-” 

“‘Desserts made with seasonal fillings and emulsions,’” Crowley read from the menu, waving it in his friend’s face. “‘Market price’! Could be a one time opportunity.”

The angel wiggled happily in his seat. “Well, in that case--” 

Crowley’s temptation was never accomplished, because the bar door opened significantly. 

A tall vision in white walked in: white jeans, cowboy boots, long white beard, and a white leather jacket bedazzled enough to put Tony Alamo to shame. 

The belt, adorned with seven large round buckles of pure gold, was a dead giveaway. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s face fell. “No. How awkward.”

The tall bearded fellow advanced slowly towards the bar, nodding at everyone in a generally friendly way, as though he knew everyone but couldn’t remember any names. He had rosy cheeks and eyes with the glitter of gold in them. Perhaps, if one was to take a closer, longer look, his eyes truly glittered like iron pyrite. 

“Well, what a surprise!” The big angel’s smile flashed pearly white and perfect. “Fancy meeting a fellow work associate in this bar, on this night.” Gold eyes glittered. “On my turf.” 

“Hello Moroni,” Aziraphale said, standing up to shake his hand. He winced as his soft hand was crushed by a much larger, stronger one. 

A quiet, low hiss issued from where Crowley sat.

“Now, I can’t recall your name,” Moroni said, stroking his beard. “But I think Gabriel has mentioned you once or twice. From England, right? With the flaming sword?” He looked the other angel up and down curiously. “You still have that?” 

“Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate. I’m afraid the sword is not on my person at the moment,” he said, trying to regain some sort of composure. “And whatever became of your golden plates?” 

Moroni waved a large hand. “Never mind all that. I’m more interested in what you’re doing here. Utah is my territory. These are my people. And I’ve never seen you here before.” 

Aziraphale gaped at him. “I’m here on official business, of course! Didn’t,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “didn’t head office inform you?”

The large angel looked unimpressed. “Inform me about what?”

“Well, you know,” Aziraphale waved his hands helplessly. “The missionaries! And their bus! They needed some special intervention?”

“Oh,” Moroni said, his voice flat and deep, “There might have been something like that going on. I forgot.”

“You.” Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed; his soft gaze hardened. “Forgot.”

“That’s what I said.” 

“Forgot about your people. The ones you are charged to protect.”

Moroni sniffed and rocked back on the gold heels of his cowboy boots. “There’s a lot of human missionaries around, you know. Hard to keep track of `em all. Sure they’ll be just fine.” 

Aziraphale’s face went on a journey that took him dangerously close to apoplectic rage. 

“Your people are quite safe,” Aziraphale said, “because I was here to do your job! Because you forgot! And if you had forgotten, what, for hell’s sake, are you doing here right now?” 

There was a sly rustling and a crunching sound. Crowley had materialized a red and white striped bag of popcorn to munch as he watched the angels.

“Oh that’s easy,” Moroni said. “I sensed another ethereal presence nearby. Also, this bar is pretty ripe with the stench of evil. Being such a responsible angel, you must’ve noticed.” He walked a slow circle around Aziraphale and stopped just short of where Crowley sat with his popcorn. “See, this is where the evil stink is concentrated the most. Right here, where this slick character in the glasses is sitting.” 

Crowley kept on eating popcorn as though no one was saying anything at all about any demon nearby. 

Aziraphale’s hands twitched nervously. His evening had been going so well. He was about to have dessert. The nice Mormons were safe. Why was this other angel ruining everything with territorial posturing? And what exactly was he going to do to Crowley?

“You are banished from this place, foul creature!” Moroni swiftly hauled Crowley up by his lapels, sending popcorn kernels scattering. He set Crowley roughly down and swiped the sunglasses from the demon’s face. They clattered to the floor.

“Did you hear me, shit-eyes?” 

Aziraphale materialized between Moroni and Crowley so fast that they were both knocked a few steps back. 

The bar around them had gone shimmery and silvery around the edges, the patrons now just gray blurry silhouettes. For the moment, they were concealed from mortal eyes. 

“There really is no need for that kind of language,” Aziraphale said coldly. 

Moroni made a long, drawn out whistle. “What’s this, huh? I guessed you were just too weak, soft, and British to dispose of this demon. Are you seriously defending it?”

He moved in on Aziraphale again, menacing him back with his sheer bulk. 

Any minute now and the wings will come out, Crowley thought. Or maybe they would wrestle? Either way, he’ll need more popcorn. 

“You working with this fiend? Collaborating with hellspawn? What kind of a sorry, blasphemous excuse for an angel are you, consorting with one of the fallen?”

Moroni towered over Aziraphale still, but this time the smaller angel did not back down. He stood straight and stared right up at the other angel, his own eyes flashing with holy wrath. 

Crowley smelled the atmosphere change just then (a salty, tingling, electricity on his tongue) and realized one or both of them was gearing up for a righteous smiting. 

“Right, I’ll just be on my way then.” He gathered up his limbs to make an exit. “Already tempted everyone in this place anyway. I’m off. Nice city you’ve got here, Moroni. Great bars, lovely tabernacle choir. Lake’s a bit smelly, though.” 

“No, Crowley. You are not going anywhere,” Aziraphale commanded, and Crowley was so shocked at the tone of the angel’s voice that he forgot about going anywhere for a moment. 

That moment was long enough for Azirapahle to raise his hand and snap with the force of a righteous sucker punch right in between Moroni’s golden eyes. 

The towering white figure in the bedazzled jacket was suddenly gone, leaving behind nothing more than an offended shiver of ozone and the lingering scent of Stetson cologne. 

“Angel,” Crowley’s yellow eyes were large and shocked. “What did you do?” 

Aziraphale’s forehead wrinkled as he lowered his arm. He looked down at the ground, right where Moroni had vanished. 

“I got carried away,” he whispered to the demon. “Again. He was so rude to you, Crowley.”

“Do you know where you sent him to?”

“I didn’t, that is, well, he’s still here, Crowley!” 

“What?” Crowley blinked and followed Aziraphale’s gaze down to the floor. 

In the place where the angel Moroni had stood, there was now a small baby goldfinch. It made a tiny peep, beating useless wings covered in pin feathers.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. “What have I gone and done?” He stooped and picked up the baby bird, cradling it gently. It merely sat there and cheeped. “Although, I must say that I prefer you this way,” he whispered to the bird in his hands.

“I do, too,” said Crowley, his tongue poking through his teeth. “Just the right sssize for a sssnack.”

Aziraphale looked horrified. “You can’t eat him, Crowley! Besides, he won’t remain a bird forever. Eventually he’ll regain his original form, and where would that leave you?” 

“Bleh,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale nodded in agreement. 

“We can’t just leave him here. Someone might step on him! We need him somewhere safe, and far away from us. Can’t you do something, Crowley?” 

“All right,” Crowley said. He put on a spare pair of shades from his jacket pocket and snapped his fingers. Their surroundings returned to a normal bar bustling with activity.

Then he took out his sleek, black phone. 

“I don’t know if animal control will come to pick up a bird from a bar,” fretted Aziraphale. 

“Yeah, that’s why I’m hiring an Uber, angel. They’re well acquainted with picking up all sorts from bars.” 

A group of four tipsy men had taken interest and now gathered around Crowley and Aziraphale. 

“What’s that you’ve got there?” One of them asked.

“It’s a bird! What are you doing with a bird?”

“That’s not hygenic, my man, you’re gonna get bird flu.”

“I’ll take a picture and Tweet it! Haha! Get it? Because birds-”

“We get it, Tim, it’s just not funny.” 

“Hey, would you guys mind helping us out?” Crowley said. “Or, rather, helping out this weak, pathetic baby bird? I think it’s injured or something.” 

The baby goldfinch cheeped loudly. 

“Awww, poor little fella,” the one named Tim said. “Sure we’ll help!” 

“Nice one, Tim!” Crowley clapped the man on his back. “You’re a regular Saint Francis.”

“Yeah!” said Tim. “Wait, who?”

“Here,” said Aziraphale, and carefully transferred the tiny bird into the hands of the intoxicated man. “Do be careful.” 

“Tim, you idiot,” groaned one of his friends. “What are you going to do with that bird? You can’t even take care of a goldfish!” 

Tim blinked. The bird looked up at him and made another tiny peep. 

“Not to worry,” said Crowley. “There’s an Uber on the way to pick up this sorry pile of feathers!”

“Uh, ok,” said Tim. “But where will the Uber take it?”

Crowley muttered something rude under his breath, and Aziraphale nudged him.

“Well, there’s always the Wildlife Rehabilitation Center,” Tim’s friend said. “They’d take in a baby bird for sure.” 

“That will do nicely!” said Aziraphale. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

“Uber’s here,” said Crowley. “C’mon outside, lads.”

Tim, to his credit, got a paper towel from the bar to use as a makeshift nest for the baby goldfinch.  
They chatted a bit on their way outside, and in that time Tim learned Crowley’s name and decided that it, along with his accent and sunglasses, was very cool. 

The Uber driver was confused at first, but agreed to take her unusual passenger once she learned that the men with their beers were not getting in the car. She took the bird to the Wildlife Center, taking the turns a bit more gently than usual.

Later, this incident spread around social media as a wholesome, feel-good human interest story. The man credited with the bird’s whimsical rescue gave his name to the news as Tim Crowley. Crowley the demon took no offense. His name was very cool, after all.

“Won’t they be angry with you?” Crowley asked the angel some time afterwards, once he had read the news story on his phone. “Upstairs, I mean?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said. “To tell you the truth, Moroni has never been that popular since his debacle with the golden plates. They were meant to be used at a rather important celestial banquet, you see, but he lost them before they even made it to their destination. I think head office will overlook the fact that this one spent some time in a wildlife center. It may even do him some good!” 

Crowley looked at his friend over the dark lenses of his glasses, yellow eyes glowing significantly. “Sure angel,” he said. “You could never be anything other than good as gold.”


End file.
